I live near the Barclays Center, whose opening was maligned by residents who feared that each Brooklyn Nets game would end with a tsunami of boozed-up shouting morons. As it turns out, Nets fans have been incredibly subdued. Not so Beliebers.

Speaking of vomiting in public,
Justin Bieber played the Barclays earlier this week. (Can we start
calling the Barclays “the Barc”? Is that appropriately lame, or
unforgivably lame? Other suggestions, from Internet friends, include The Black House and The Rust Bucket.) The performance was reportedly tepid, but that did not stop the Beliebers from screaming. I assume nothing can.

After the performance, a pack of wild fans waited outside the stage
door, hoping to catch a glimpse of the star’s tour bus. (Which had just
spun around, we assume, on the Rust Bucket’s famous rotating trucks turntable.) Though the bus’s windows were fully blacked out, the kids lost their shit,
screaming like our parents’ generation might have while
being simultaneously diddled by all four Beatles. As the bus lumbered
away—as their dreams lumbered away—the kids broke past the barricades
and chased after the bus. It would have gotten away, too, if it hadn’t
been for that street light.